


Nature of a Soldier

by Chimie_Chat



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Soldier Viktor, Soldier Yurio, Soviet Union, The au that nobody asked for, Victor spelled Viktor, Viktor is an asshole, Violence, WWII, alternative universe, prisoner yuuri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 20:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10670601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimie_Chat/pseuds/Chimie_Chat
Summary: It's World War II, and Yuuri has just been taken prisoner in a Soviet internment camp. Now in a labor camp, he needs to focus on keeping his head low, and doing as he's told. But when he attracts the attention of a certain Soviet officer, all hopes of that are out the window.





	1. A Final Letter Home

_Dear Mother,_

_I'm sorry that's it's been so long since I've written. We've been so distracted lately. How's Father doing? You mentioned in your last letter that he's been in the hospital. I wish him well. I'm sure he's happy to be back home, and surrounded by familiar sights and faces. I wish I could see familiar things again. I don't want to worry you, but I won't be able to write for a while. We're currently on our way to Manchuria, in hopes to intercept the Soviet railways. I will write to you as soon as possible._

_Your Little Soldier,_

_Yuuri_

* * *

 

It was black. Not a single light was able to penetrate through. It was cold. Yuuri could feel the shivering of the bodies he was pressed against better than his own toes. He was curled up with his face tucked into his knees, partially to conserve as much body heat as possible, but mostly because there simply wasn't room. It was impossible to tell how many people were shoved inside of this metal boxcar. Yuuri kept his hands in front of his mouth, using his breath to keep his fingers warm. He remembered a lesson he had learned as a child.

'If you're freezing cold keep moving. It will keep you alive.'

Right now he couldn't remember who had told him that, or what the context was, but he clung to it as though it were the dying words of a loved one. So he kept fidgeting. Moving his fingers, curling his toes, bouncing his legs up and down; anything to keep moving despite the limited space.  
It was hard to tell how far they had come, how long they had been sardine-packed into this train car, or where they were even going. Yuuri could make only one, general guess as to the final destination; the Soviet Union. There were a lot of uncertainties there. Yuuri wasn't stupid. He and his entire fleet knew was surrendering to the USSR troops would mean. He, and every other  
Japanese man in this train car, was now a prisoner of war. Yuuri tried not to think on what that would mean for now, and instead focused his thoughts on remembering home and home cooked meals, the way the river looked in his village, anything.

Yuuri had no concept of time when he sound of the train's engine quieted, and the locomotive slowed to a halt. He could hear the rustling of everyone around him, all wondering whether this was just another short pause in their journey, or if they had reached their final destination. The collective question was answered when the side door of the boxcar was pulled open. The sound of metal scraping against metal caused the most blood-curdling shiver through Yuuri's body. Light pooled into the enclosure, and it was beyond blinding.

A group of men, in what Yuuri could recognize as Soviet uniforms, came into the boxcar carrying weapons and yelling in foreign tongues. All of the Japanese men were scared to their feet, or at least, those who were able to stand. As he was herded out of the boxcar, Yuuri did his best to not look at the people who were left behind. They were the ones who we either not strong enough to stand, or died long before the train stopped. Yuuri knew very well that the ones who couldn't move, would soon be dead as well.

As he stepped out of the train, a thick, dirty, woolen blanket was thrown at him. He caught it readily, and immediately wrapped it around his person. Every prisoner had one. All of the Japanese men were herded like cattle down a dirt and stone path away from the train tracks. While the group marched, Yuuri couldn't help but be thankful for his boots. There was a thick layer of snow on the ground, which had a layer of ice on top of it. Each step broke either broke through the ice, causing feet the be buried in the snow, or slid on top of the surface, knocking people off balance. With boots, it was much more manageable. Yuuri didn't have to worry about frostbite, so he stomped his feet into the cold surface, and dug his heals in so that he never lost his footing. Some of the men he walked with were not that lucky. Some didn't have any kind of shoe on.  
Those men quickly fell behind in the pack.

After being unable to move for so long, in such a restricted space, this death march through the cold was unbearable. Every muscle in his body was screaming at him from underuse. By some miracle, Yuuri's stamina persisted. He was fairly confident that the only things keeping him from dropping into the snow were his body's natural abilities, and the angry sounding voices yelling in incomprehensible languages. Yuuri could only guess that it was Russian; it sounded so bitter and harsh.

Eventually, the mass grew close to a large, chain-link fence with barbed wire spiralling the top. Large wooden gates were opened in front of them, and the men were all pushed through. Upon entry, they marched a while further past fields separated off with more fences, and came across rows of one to two floor stone buildings. They stood in the middle of a small courtyard, surrounded by Soviet soldiers.

Suddenly, these soldiers were grabbing the Japanese men one by one, pulling them off into different building surrounding the clearing. Yuuri felt a large, muscular hand grab him by the shoulder. His feet knocked out from under him as he was physically dragged and thrown through a door. The asian man landed on the stone floor of the building he found himself in. He scrambled to grab hold of his wool blanket, not wanting to lose that commodity. Only moments later, Yuuri was lifted off the ground by that same hand, and slammed down onto a wooden chair. This was the first time were Yuuri was actually able to get a good look at the faces of some of the Soviets.  
Four total stood in the room Yuuri was in. One was an old man, with a large rugged face, who sat behind a desk. The lapel of his uniform was well decorated, with many different medals hanging off of it. The man who had so forcefully thrown Yuuri into this room was tall and brute-ish. He stood like a tank, with a scowl on his face. However, from the looks of his uniform, if what Yuuri knew about uniforms applied to Russian military as well, this man wasn't very highly ranked. His uniform was dirtied and under-decorated.

Two others stood in the room, and the only word Yuuri could have used to describe the both of them was "perfect". Both of their uniforms were clean and well-ironed. Not a single crease was out of place. One looked very young, but Yuuri wasn't sure he would call him a child. While he was small in height, the fit of his uniform suggested that he was in good physical form. His skin was pale, and Yuuri could just catch a glimpse of blonde hair from beneath the soldier's hat. But he had the biggest scowl on his face, so much so that it left crease marks between his brows. If anything Yuuri knew about Europeans was to be held true, this boy would grow much taller than Yuuri could ever hope to be.

The second man stood most than half a foot taller, and he was certainly fit. His face was angular, and his expression was serious. He had several medals lined up on the jacket of his uniform, though not as many as the old man. Well trimmed, ashen blonde locks sat neatly underneath his uniform hat. He stood at attention, not even bothering a glance at Yuuri.

"Name." The old many behind the desk spoke. It was the first time Yuuri had heard Japanese since boarding the train. The man's accent was thick, but understandable.

"K-Katsuki Yuuri." Yuuri was surprised when the youngest of the Soviet soldiers seemed to growl at that. The man next to him muttered something back, and the boy silenced himself.

"Age."

The enemy soldiers continued to collect Yuuri's personal information. Once done, he was forced to his feet once more, and shoved towards the two well-groomed soldiers. They led Yuuri back outside, past a few structures, and into another building. Directly inside the doorway was at least ten other Japanese men, all standing as if waiting for instruction. Yuuri was halted, and forced to stand with the group, as the two Soviets walked passed to the front of the room.

Yuuri studied their movements carefully, not sure what to expect at this moment. Suddenly, a smug grin spread across both of their faces, shifting their expressions from stern, to sadistic. The taller of the two opened his mouth to speak, his voice harsh as his accent butchered the Japanese language.

"Strip."


	2. Put to Work

Yuuri had never been more mortified. At first no one had moved, but it didn't take much "convincing" for all of the Japanese men to strip down to their underwear. The enemy soldiers in the room snickered and pointed. Even though Yuuri couldn't understand their words, he had a feeling he knew what they were thinking. Mockery sounded the same in every language. Yuuri began shifting his arms, trying to cover his body and hide from the overlooking gaze. He knew he was on the larger side, he always had been. Even with food rations being low, Yuuri couldn't control his body's natural ability to hold onto every calorie and ounce of fat. Standing naked, in the freezing cold, only made it that much more prominent how large he really was.

A man came through the group with burlap sacks, and shoved one into the arms of each prisoner. When Yuuri got his, he opened it up and looked inside. It contained clothes and boots. Yuuri watched as everyone around him started to dress themselves in the clothes, and he did the same. The fabric was itchy and heavily starched, but it was thick. They were a nasty shade of brown, that made them look like they had just been dropped in the mud. They were not sturdy. Yuuri could already notice ripped seams in the hems. The boots felt like wood beneath his feet, with no padding whatsoever. The only good part was the coat. It was a large, thick parka. It looked like one big coffee stain, but it was warm.

Yuuri threw his old clothes into the sack just before the group of Japanese were forced through a door at the end of the room they were in. It was a long room. Wooden bunkbeds lined the walls. There were already a few men in the room, standing by the foot of their bunks.

The soviet soldier with the near white hair walked down the center of the room, calling out names. As he did, the people whose names were called were pulled out from the bunch, and dragged to what would be their assigned bunk.

"Katsuki." When Yuuri's name was called, he quickly walked forward, trying to avoid being shoved around by Soviet men again. The bunk he was assigned to already had another Japanese man, who looked twice his age, standing next to it.

"You're the top one." The man said, gesturing to the ladder that would lead to the elevated bed. Yuuri only nodded.

Once everyone was assigned a bunk, the Soviet's just left, with no more words to say. There was a collective sigh that filled the room. Some of the others started talking. There were many questions floating around. Yuuri didn't know what to say though. He was still in shock.  
How did this happen? Where exactly was he? How long would he be here?

He wanted to ask these questions, but he didn't have the ability to voice them. His body felt heavy. Yuuri tossed his sack, full of his old clothes, up into his newly assigned bunk. He thought about climbing up, maybe lay down and close his eye, and hopefully wake up back in his mother's home. Pretend everything was just one long nightmare. But before he could, the older man approached him.

"Where did they take you from?"

Yuuri stared at the man, processing the question before deciding how to answer. "Manchuria"

"All the way from there, hmm?" The man sat down on the mattress of the lower bunk. "We were taken from a boat on our way to Korea." The man didn't say any more.

It was hard to put the exact feelings Yuuri was having into words. He was both uncomfortable, and terrified, with a plethora of other emotions mixed in. He climbed up into his bunk, and found one woolen blanket folded over an unsheeted mattress. There was no pillow. With a sigh, Yuuri used his bundle of clothes from his Japanese uniform, which he was forced to take off, as a makeshift pillow. He removed his glasses and tucked them away safely at the top of the bed. Exhaustion set in the moment he laid down. The combination of the cold coming into the non-heated bunk-room, the fear of being held captive by Soviets, and the long, tiring train ride to get to this God-forsaken place, very quickly flooded over Yuuri. He had only meant to blink, but quickly he found that he couldn't open his eyes. Soon, his breathing slowed, and without warning, Yuuri was asleep.

* * *

 

_"Vstavay."_

The strange sound met Yuuri's ears, but he didn't think anything of it. While it sounded like someone speaking, it wasn't recognizable. So, Yuuri pressed his face downward, further into the mattress beneath him.

Suddenly there was a grip around his ankle. All of the air within his lungs left him and he was suddenly ripped off the top bunk, and found himself falling into the stone floor. It was approximately a four foot drop. Yuuri cried out when he hit the ground. He peaked his eye open and found himself face to face with a Soviet soldier.

It was the shorter blonde one that he had seen before. The one that, even know, had a dark scowl across his face. The soldier spat, saliva sticking itself to Yuuri's cheek. _"Svin'ya vstavay."_

The soldier shoved Yuuri's chest to the ground once more, before walking away. The japanese man scrambled to his feat. He reached up onto his bunk and grabbed his glasses, sliding them onto his face, eyes still wide as saucers.

"When they say that, they mean 'wake up'." A dark skinned man in the across said from the next bunk over, his voice in a whisper. He spoke in english. "They don't like to repeat commands, but if you follow what they say then they won't hurt you any more."

"How do you understand them?" Yuuri asked.

The man looked happy when Yuuri was able to reply. "You speak english! Not many of the people here do." He smiled. "Some of them will give commands in english. But most of them will just use russian. You'll learn the meaning of most commands pretty quickly though." The man explained.

  
He reached a hand out to Yuuri for a handshake. "My name is Phichit."

"That's an odd name."

"That's because I'm Thai." Phichit continued. "While most of the people here are japanese, there are some from other nations."

"I see." Yuuri finally realized that the hand was still being offered, and he quickly took it in a gentle shake. "I'm Yuuri."

"Well Yuuri, if you don't want to get hurt more, I recommend you stay by me."

More soviet soldiers started filing into the bunk-room, yelling in that incoherent language. Immediately Phichit, along with others in the room, began to follow after them. Yuuri followed too. The herd left the walls of the bunk-room, and walked out into the cold outdoors. Icey winds pierced over the collar of Yuuri's jacket, and stabbed into the nape of his neck. He shivered immediately. The group was lead past the other buildings on the complex. Once passed, Yuuri saw the acres of fields, lined with plants and crops.

The group suddenly formed a single file line, which Yuuri awkwardly worked himself into. They moved one by one, approaching a shed. Yuuri took his steps forward when he could. He didn't know what exactly he was lined up for, but after his harsh wake-up call earlier, he wasn't about to question anything.

Suddenly, a tall shovel was shoved into his chest. Yuuri looked up and found himself looking into the eyes of a soviet soldier. More specifically, the tall, ashen blonde one, who had caused him one of the biggest humiliations of his lifetime. There was an odd grin on this man's face. It simultaneously looked friendly, and instilled fear. This was the first time Yuuri was close enough to see the steel blue eyes underneath the fringe of the man's hair. When the soldier opened his mouth again, that same, icey, accent heavy voice once again blemished the beauty of the japanese language. "Take it and work."

Yuuri gulped, and took the shovel in shaking hands. He moved to the side, seeking out Phichit, who he already saw heaving into the fields.

"We farm while we're here." Phichit explained, digging a shovel into the soil beneath their feat.

"What can even grow here?" Yuuri kicked his own shovel into the dirt, following the example of the other captive.

"Mostly wheat and potatoes."

"Potatoes?" The confusion on Yuuri's face was clear.

"Hmm." Phichit hummed. "They're kind of the size of a fist, and when you cook them they get mushy. It's the staple in all of the Russian foods. We eat them every day."

"Oh…" Yuuri was about to keep talking, but he looked up and saw that the pair was being closely watched, and immediately quieted.

They continued to work in silence. Picking at the half-frozen ground with shovels. Yuuri noticed that every time he finished digging a hole, it was stuffed with seeds and plant buds, then the loose dirt was packed on top of it. It was harder than Yuuri would have thought. He wasn't used to such physical efforts. Not this much and this long at least. He was getting tired, and he was getting hungry.

"Hey Phich-" Yuuri shut his mouth before even being able to finish his sentence. When he looked up to talk to his new acquaintance, he was met, not with dark eye, but piercing blue. That same white haired man, the one he had such limited interaction with, and yet he was already terrified of him.

"Oh? Talking are we?"

Yuuri recognized english immediately. Without even thinking, he responded in the same tongue.

  
"No. I mean, yes. I-I mean…" His voice quieted, lost in nerves and the anxiety that washed over him.

The soldier raised a curious eyebrow. "You speak english? That makes this much easier." He straightened his stance, which only made him look larger and more intimidating. "Stand at attention." Without thinking, Yuuri stood upright, arms stiff at his sides. He dropped the shovel he had been working with. "What conversation were you planning on having _porosenok_?"

Yuuri swallowed the lump in his throat before speaking. "I-I was going to ask what time we finish working."

"Do you think you deserve to be finished?" The man stepped closer. When Yuuri did not reply, the soldier grabbed the asian male's cheeks between the thumb and fingers on one hand, and forced Yuuri to look him in the eye. The grip was painful. "Answer me."

"I don't know what is expected of me, so I don't know how to answer." The words were distorted due to the hand clutching his jaw, but they were understandable.

"You are expected to work without complaint." With that, the ashen blonde threw Yuuri to the ground. He stood over the sputtering japanese man, giving one last glare before turning away and leaving.

Yuuri scrambled back to his feet, grabbing his shovel once more, and quickly went back to the task of digging holes.

* * *

 

"Out of all the guards to have on your case, you had to get Nikoforov." Phichit sighed as he shoveled a hunk of potato-slop into his mouth. The men all sat in a large mess hall, filled with worn down wooden tables and benches. The food on their cafeteria trays looked like smooshed patés you would give to an infant. Each of them had a scoop of mashed potatoes, slices of meat that were mostly fat, and a strange green paste that might have been veggies at one point. Along with this was a cup containing a thick, brown syrup-like sauce.

"What do you mean?" Yuuri watched as Phichit poured the sauce all over his food, and did the same.

The thai man looked around before leaning over towards Yuuri. "Viktor Nikiforov. He's that guard who talked to you out in the fields. Not someone you want on your back."

"Why's that?" Oh great. If Yuuri wasn't worked up about that soviet's presence before, he definitely was now.

"He has a pretty high rank, and he could very easily make your time here a living hell." Phichit explained. "He also has an extreme attention to detail, so if he's watching you, then you'll never have the chance to relax."

Yuuri's face twisted into a frown. He hadn't meant to do anything wrong. He didn't even know what he was supposed to be doing. "I'm gonna die here."

"Don't think like that." Phichit gave the other an encouraging nudge. "I've been here for two months, and I can tell you that Nikiforov especially isn't too kean on killing anyone. He's brutal, but no one had died on his watch. From what I can tell, it's a cleanliness thing though."

"He's really frightening though."

Yuuri thought about ways to keep his head low, and avoid further attention. He hoped to whatever god was watching him that this Nikiforov would forget about him all together, or at least not pay him any mind. But then, if not him, then what other guard would come after him. It was then that it really sunk in for Yuuri. He was on enemy territory, being kept in an enemy internment camp, being forced to work for the enemy's benefit. Yuuri was going to need all the luck he could get.


	3. Flashbacks

Unflavored, unseasoned mush balanced precariously on the end of a wooden spoon. This spoonful of beige would mark the beginning if Yuuri's fourth meal, and third day, at the Soviet gulag. While he hadn't been here long yet, Yuuri was already learning how to make the barely edible meals bearable. He began to spread the unidentifiable semi-solid on top of the piece of bread that he was also given. The slop made the bread less dry. He then took the tin cup of watery coffee, and tried to enjoy every hot sip for what it was.

Even though he hadn't been at this place long, Yuuri could feel the long hours of physical labor catching up with him. More specifically the dirt and sweat sticking to his skin was starting to become unbearable. His scalp itched from the amount of grease and grime caked into it. His nails were black underneath. Yuuri had absolutely no idea what day of the week it was, but he had heard that at the end of the week, he would be allowed to shower. He looked forward to that. But he had no way of telling how far away that was.

Today, rather than digging holes, he was filling them. He followed behind another man, who was tasked with placing deformed spuds into each ditch. Once a few feet of distance was between the, Yuuri would use the surrounding soil to patch up the hole. It was a much easier job than digging had been. He was thankful for that much at least. The repetitive action was starting to blur away the japanese soldier's sense of time. Today the sun was hidden behind gray clouds, hiding away it's natural clock, as well as the warmth it could have provided. Instead, the fields were shrouded.  
Normally Yuuri would have been nervous about clouds like that. They often times dictated that a winter storm was coming through the area. But upon looking around, Yuuri saw that none of the soviet's looked concerned in the slightest. There were mixed emotions within the prisoners.  
Before this war started, Yuuri had never bothered to study up on Russia, be it the culture or the terrain. Instead he had chosen to practice his english. While that hadn't been a bad move, his current situation made him wish he had bothered to at least read one book on the incredibly large nation. The only thing he knew was a dumb joke his would say after reading the Politics section of the morning paper.

_"You know these soldiers have been in Russia too long when they start thinking of bread as a good mixer for vodka."_

Right now, Yuuri really missed his father's humor.

* * *

 

When he was five years old his mother signed his sister, Mari, up for traditional dance. A family friend ran a small studio that taught many kinds of international dances, but Yuuri's mother had insisted on her daughter learning only Japanese. Because his sister went to these classes after school, Yuuri would do along with her. He would sit in the corner of the room, and watch his sister practice with the other girls her age. He had always been enamored by the beauty of it. Mari had always been graceful, but stubborn.

There was an expo at the school one day. The instructor was showing off different kinds of dances. As a small child, Yuuri was enthralled with the way the instructor moved her body to the different rhythms and tempos. The second Yuuri got home, he begged his mother to let him learn dance as well.

Before beginning lessons, Yuuri's body shape was best described as round. He wasn't very energetic, so he didn't move too much. His coordination was abysmal at best. But by the end of that first month, there was a visible improvement in how he carried himself, and how he moved. The pain had started first from his feet. Breaking in dance shoes had been rough, plus he wasn't used to moving his ankles in that way. Then came the pain in his thighs when he began doing jumps and leaps. As he got older, and more experiences, was the pain in his arms as he built up his upper body strength so he could do lifts. He realized very quickly that if his body didn't feel like jelly the next day, he didn't train hard enough.

* * *

 

Yuuri sat in on top of his bunk, picking at a blister on the side of his foot. New callosus had formed on the only remaining soft skin on his feet. One blister had popped while working that day, and had already scabbed over. The weight in his biceps still hadn't left. The muscles were sore from the repetitive strain.

He looked across the bunk room, watching the others do whatever they wished with their free time. After working for impossibly long hours every day, dinner would be had, then everyone would be walked back to the large hall for the night. Some immediately went to sleep, others stayed up and talked amongst each other.

On the floor was a group of men, all of which had been here before Yuuri arrived. They had a deck of cards, and looked like they were playing poker. They used rocks, sticks, and buttons as chips.

Phichit was in his bunk, scratching out a tallymark into the wood of the wall. They were for every day he had been there. After pulling his socks back onto his feet, Yuuri hopped off his bed and went over to the only person here whom he could call a friend.

"Mind if I sit?" The japanese mad asked.

"Go ahead." The tan man moved the blanket around on the mattress so that it was smoothed out before Yuuri sat down. "How are you hold up?"

Yuuri shrugged. "It's starting the settle in I think. Being here I mean."

"It's strange, but you get used to it." Phichit finished off his tallymark. Once down, he turned completely to face the other male. "I can't vouch for how we're treated, but at least we're alive."

The thought sunk into the pit of Yuuri's gut. Should he be dead right now? He supposed he probably should be. The only reason he was taken prisoner was because he had surrendered. It was a cowardly move, one that he should be ashamed of. But it kept him alive. In the end, Yuuri knew that was all his mother would care about; him coming home alive.

"Phichit, why are you here?" The moment Yuuri opened his mouth to speak, he regretted it.

The expression on the man opposite of him twisted into an awkward shape. One eyebrow was raised, while the other was furrowed inward. Small wrinkles were visible at the bridge of his nose as an effect. A frown played at the corners of the man's lips. "What do you mean?"

Yuuri took in a breath. "Sorry. That was rude."

"No. You're fine." An awkward silence grew between them while everyone around them seemed to still be making noise. They were the only two who ever spoke in english, to the point where Yuuri wasn't so sure if anyone else could or not. "Do you mean why is someone from Thailand here?"

The gulp of saliva felt rock solid as it went down Yuuri's throat. He nodded. "Thailand is allies with Russia, isn't it? So why…."

"I was accused of being a spy." Phichit's face smoothed out a little. "I worked as a translator between my country and the Soviets. A piece of military information uncovered and released in some news paper, and I took the blame for it."

"So they brought you here?"

"Russian gulags are known for being particularly harsh." Phichit explained. "You'll see eventually. This weather is going to get really harsh, especially since we're closing in on winter now."

"I see…"

"Thank you for talking to me by the way." The comment surprised the Japanese man, so that he looked up and into the eyes of the one who had said it. "No one else here does."

"You're the only one who talks to me too, so I guess that makes us even."

"Don't die on me, ok?" A hand reached out to cover Yuuri's. "Promise me you won't die?"

Yuuri turned his hand so that he was able to grab Phichit's. "I promise as long as you do that same."

Phichit nodded his head. "Yeah. I promise."


	4. Becoming Acquainted with Dirt

The cold nipped at all skin being exposed as Yuuri pulled off each article of clothing one by one. He tried to maintain some aspect of decency, keeping his underwear on until the last possible moment. He folded his pants and shirt, laying them in a neat pile on the floor. His feet came into contact with slightly frosted rock. He looked in front of him, seeing the line for the showers. There were only three more people in front of him at this point, one of which was still fully clothed. Yuuri had thought he waited until the last possible moment to undress, but apparently he was wrong.

Standing by the entrance to the showers were two soviet soldiers that Yuuri had become unfortunately acquainted with during his time in the gulag; Major Nikiforov and Private Plisetsky. The two watched intently as the various japanese prisoners slunked in and out of the facilities. Once Yuuri was one person away from being allowed in, he fidgeted with the elastic of his underwear. As he was sliding the thin piece of fabric down his legs, he heard a degrading snicker from the lower ranking soldier.

"Толстяк." Plisetsky hocked out a wad of spit at the ground as the asian man tried to walk by. It wasn't a secret that this Private, for some reason, had a natural disdain for Yuuri Katsuki. Although Yuuri had never discovered why, the young Soviet continuously dragged him off his bunk, knocked down his food trays, and genuinely gave him a hard time while working in the field.

Yuuri stepped over the patch of drivel, hating the feeling of frozen wood beneath his toes as he entered into the bathing area. There was a wall of shower heads, all pointed down at the floor made of planks of wood, each with half an each between them so that the water could leak through. The space was surrounded by a dirty curtain. Yuuri stood underneath an open shower head, bracing himself as he turned the handle. The water that came out was glacial. It stung the surface of his skin before trailing down his body in icy streams. As uncomfortably cold as it was, feeling the dirt wash away layer by layer was satisfying.

A single bar of soap hung in a small, knit bag from a hanger on the wall. Yuuri took it into both hands, feeling the suds grow around his fingers. He immediately started scrubbing at his body. He was on a time limit. Despite the low quality of the shower, he knew it would be a while until he was allowed to have another. He saw his tanned skin get three shades lighter when he would run the soap over his arms and legs. The water stabbed into his shoulders as he built up suds in his hands, and began to lather it into his grease filled hair. Fingernails scratched into his scalp, forcing all of the muck and filth out. Yuuri didn't want to keep his head underneath the stream for too long, in fear of getting hypothermia, so he worked fast. He was in the middle of washing off a buildup of soap on his chest when the water shut off completely. His time was up all too soon.

Yuuri followed others to the exit, where a beaten towel was tossed in his direction. Immediately, he began to towel off. He ran back to where he had left his clothes, only to find them missing. Panic immediately rushed through his body as he stood in nothing but a small rag of a towel wrapped around his waist. He was preparing to ask someone what had happened, when a great force crashed into his back, sending him flying into the jagged ground. Yuuri scrambled to sit up on the ground. When he turned, he found himself face to face with searing green eyes, and a massive scowl.

"Fucking scum." Private Plisetsky shoved the bottom of his boot into Yuuri's chest, forcing the older man back into the dirt. "Pigs are supposed to be dirty, remember?" The soviet soldier's accent was thick, but his words were clear.

An immense pressure was placed in the center of the fallen prisoner's chest as he felt the young russian put the entirety of his weight into standing on the asian man for a brief second. When the boot was removed from his chest, Yuuri couldn't help the uncontrollable coughing as he forced himself to sit back up. He frantically looked around for help. Horror struck when he realized he was alone. The other prisoners were gone; the last of them must have been ushered back to the bunkers by now. The only person nearby was Nikiforov, who still stood by the entrance to the showers. The white haired man didn't even spare Yuuri a glance.

The steel toe of Plisetsky's boot swung into Yuuri's shoulder, knocking him back down. He could feel his back scrape into the rock beneath him. Another swift kick met the side of his ribcage, causing him to sputter and cry out.

"Shut up сволочь." That same large foot rammed into Yuuri's right wrist, causing him to once again scream out in agony.

Despite the freezing cold of the ground and the air, nothing but searing heat radiated from Yuuri's wrist. He could feel tear globbing down his face. "P-p-ple… Stop." He managed to whisper out one word through the pain.

"Huh?!" The russian soldier ground his boot into the prisoner's wrist. "You want me to stop?" Yuuri could only nod rapidly. "If you want me to stop, then make be a good pig and squeal for me."

Panicked eyes flashed up at the soldier above him, and moved towards the higher ranking soviet. Major Nikiforov wasn't paying them even a sliver of attention. Fear filled Yuuri's entire body. OH god. Was this it for him? "Wh-what?"

Plisetsky called something out in russian. Out of the corner of his, Yuuri was able to see Nikiforov glance at them briefly before nodding. The blonde then turned his attention back to the practically naked man on the ground. "Make a noise like the pig you are, then I'll let you go."

Mortification. Pure, unadulterated mortification. But in a situation like this, he didn't have any choice. "B-b-..." He gulped down what little dignity he had left. "Bu-hii. Bu-hii."

"The fuck kind of pig is that?" Plisetsky spat out.

"That's the sound japanese pigs make." Nikiforov's voice was calm.

"It's weird." One last kick found its way into Yuuri's side before the enraged soldier finally stepped away. "Go shower again you filth."

With the new found opportunity, Yuuri scrambled to push himself up to his feet. The moment he put any pressure on his right hand, he felt that stabbing pain all over again. He rushed back into the showers, throwing himself underneath a stream of water. He watched the water carry a red tint as it splashed onto the wooden floor. He tried to hold his wrist under the showerhead. It was already starting to swell. The biggest challenge was trying to keep his arm completely still, holding his hand close against his chest, while he tried to use his non-injured arm to scrub his body clean once more. Tears globbed down his face as he stood still under the cold water. He didn't even know where his clothes were.

Once again, the water shut off all too soon. Yuuri stepped out of the shower. The towel he had been using was sitting on the ground, still both a little wet from its last use, as well as dirty from when he had been knocked to the floor. The moment Yuuri tried to move his wrist so wrap the towel around his waist, he yelped involuntarily from the pain. At this point, he was convinced it was broken. He hunched out of the shower area, wearing only his towel. As he walked out, he saw his original pile of clothing, folded neatly on the bench he had originally left them on. Changing was painful. There was no way to maneuver his wrist so that it wouldn't hurt as he pulled in the articles of clothing. But, they were warmer than standing outside in Russian fall weather, cold, naked, and drip-drying. The Asian didn't bother with his boots, knowing very well he wouldn't be able to tie the laces.

Yuuri began walking through the camp. There was no one around, save for guards who only stood and watched the perimeter. At this time of day, the prisoners would all be in their bunker rooms. Oddly enough, he found more comfort in knowing as few people as possible would see him in his current state.

While he didn't trust anyone in the soviet military, especially not after the beating he had just received, Yuuri knew he needed medical attention. There was an infirmary on the grounds of the gulag, mostly meant to treat the strapping young russian men, but it was also used to treat any of the prisoners. However, that was often only in the case of an emergency. The building looked just like all of the others, the only thing setting it apart from the other structures was that it was much smaller in size, and had 'лазарет' painted onto a sign above the door. While Yuuri didn't have even the slightest idea what the sign actually read, Phichit had pointed it out to him once before. He entered the building, and was immediately discomforted by the synthetic lighting reflecting off the pale-yellow tile that ran halfway up white drywall. There was a main room, lined with cots, as well as a door that likely lead to an operating room or two. Out of the many cots in the room, Yuuri counted fourteen, only three were in use.

"Excuse me?" An older woman with an immensely angular face approached Yuuri. She wore a white nurse's dress, a gently folded cap covered most of her slate black hair. A red plus sign was stitched into the fabric of her right breast pocket. The expression on her face was stern, angry even. She looked Yuuri up and down, squinting when she saw how he cradled his wrist. "English?" When Yuuri nodded in response, she continued. "I can't treat you unless one of our men gives me permission. Come back with a soldier or something."

Yuuri was about to open his mouth to object, but quickly closed it again to think over his words before speaking. "It was a soldier who hurt me."

"Well," The nurse walked over to some cabinets along a side wall and began organizing a box of gauze pads. "He must have had a good reason then."

As far as Yuuri was aware, he had never done anything to provoke the young russian soldier who had assaulted him. All he had done was shower. "It was the young soldier, the blonde one named Plisetsky."

There was a visible drop in the nurse's shoulders at the mention of adolescent recruit's name. "He has a temper, yes. I'll be the first to admit he is just a boy. But he still has his reasoning, and the rules still stand."

Yuuri bit into his lower lip. It was a gesture to both calm himself as he thought about what to say, as well as distract from the throbbing sensation by his wrist. "Major Nikiforov was there." He suddenly sputtered out. This caught the nurse's attention. "He saw that it was unprovoked."

The nurse seemed to be contemplating this. "Sit down." She didn't wait for Yuuri to be seated before she walked out of the infirmary entirely. Yet, the japanese boy listened. He was too exhausted to do much else, so he sat at the end of one of the cots. It felt like an eternity before the elder woman returned, speaking quite loudly in russian. Her conversation partner came into view only moments later.

The crisp, green uniform was easily recognizable at this point. The natural alabaster hair was a dead giveaway. His uniform cap was tucked neatly, and respectfully, underneath his arm. Viktor Nikiforov exchanged undecipherable words with the nurse. Despite having been in this gulag for an undeterminable amount of time, Yuuri had yet to pick up any of the russian language. After speaking with the woman for a few moments longer, the man approached Yuuri. His movements were stiff and mechanical, until he stood firm in front of the japanese man. "Stand." His command was stern. Yuuri was to his feet, no questions asked. Immediately, the back of a gloved hand struck into Yuuri's cheek. "Our lovely nurse, Lilia, tells me that you've accused a soviet man of causing your injury. Worst of all, you've claimed I was witness. Is this correct?"

The glare in hyperborean eyes could have cut like glass. It sent a shiver down Yuuri's spine, so much so that it distracted him from the fact that he had just been struck again. "Y-yes… Yes sir." His cheek was met with another slap.

"I didn't see anything of the sort." Nikiforov asserted. "Next time, think twice before you make accusations such as those, or else we'll have to break your other arm as well." Without waiting for Yuuri's reply, the Major officer turned on his heels. He said a few final words to Lilia before exiting the infirmary all together.

Lilia, the nurse, let out a sigh, and approached Yuuri. A stern hand on his shoulder forced him to sit back down on the cot. The russian women then went over to a set of cabinets, where the rummaged around various shelves and drawers until she returned to where the injured prisoner sat. In her hands was a plank of wood and a cotton-elastic bandage. "I can't tell if you're lucky or unlucky, boy. Nevertheless, Major Nikiforov for some reason think's you are worth fixing up. I will warn you though, I'm not wasting any anesthetic on your kind. Not when our boys may need it."

She took Yuuri's injured wrist between both hands. The pressure of her fingers forcing the broken bones back into place made Yuuri want nothing more than to scream; he bit the inside of his cheeks to stop himself. The plank of wood was placed underneath his forearm. The nurse then began wrapping the bandage around Yuuri's arm so that the wood would be held snug against him. She finished her work quickly. "There."

"Th-thank you…" Yuuri's eyes stung, though he wasn't sure he could try any more if he wanted to.

"You should thank me." Lilia dug a cravat out of her pocket, folding it into a triangle once. She situated the curve of Yuuri's elbow into the fabric, before lifting two corners to tie them around his neck. "Even if Major Nikiforov gave permission, I don't have to treat any of you if I don't want to. Whatever the reason, I'm sure a япошка like you deserved it. Now get out of here. I have real patients to treat."

Without waiting even another second, Yuuri sped out of the infirmary. His arm rested heavy in the sling. The throbbing from his hand had dulled since being wrapped, but it was still quite painful. Why couldn't it have been his left hand at least? Now he would be stuck doing tasks with his non-dominant hand for who knows how long… Working in the fields was going to be nearly impossible.

Yuuri returned to the sleeping hall he was assigned to long ago. He forced the door open with his shoulder, and it made a very loud sound. Instantly, heads turned towards him. It was late in the afternoon, so almost all of the japanese prisoners, plus a few of other ethnicities, were all gathered and hanging out within their confined spaces. Hundreds of pairs of dark eyes followed the fabric of his cast up his arm before bothering to look at his face. There were a few empathetic glances his way, although few said any words. Phichit wordlessly approached him, noting right away that Yuuri didn't want to talk about it.

"I'll switch bunks with you." The thai man said.

"You'll get in trouble if you do that." Another english speaking prisoner chimed in.

"What am I supposed to do? He can't climb into the top bunk with an arm like that."

"I'll be ok Phichit." Yuuri smiled weakly at his companion. "No need for us both to be crippled."

Yuuri moved over to his assigned bunk. He reached with his good arm, an oxymoron considering he wasn't left handed, and pulled himself onto the top mattress. It was meant to prove a point, but it was harder than he thought it would have been. The movement was anything less than graceful. Once in his bed, he could feel exhaustion overwhelm him. The strain of working in the fields, combined with the terror from earlier today… He couldn't take it. The twenty-three year old soldier pulled his blanket up so that it could cover his head, before allowing remaining tears to slide down his cheeks.


	5. Work Made Difficult

Back in Japan, in the small seaside town of Hasetsu, the sound of seagulls in the morning was the most comforting noise to wake up to. The constant chirping was a reminder of the warmer seasons, when the snow melted away. Yuuri used to take morning runs along the beach before either of his parents were awake enough to notice that he had gone. Sometimes, he would run home and be welcomes with the familiar scent of his mother’s cooking emanating from the kitchen.

 

_ “Would you help me, dear?” _

 

She would always say that to him, the biggest smile in the world on her face. Then, the two of them would stand side by side, Yuuri chopping vegetables into humorously uneven slices while his mother fiddled with the old gas stove. She knew the perfect trick to get the flame to light in only two clicks of the ignition; Yuuri could never get it to light in less than five.

 

Yuuri had no idea when he would see home again.

 

Instead of waking up to mundane birds singing over an ocean, the sound of unfamiliar screeching was the first thing that greeted Yuuri’s ears in the morning, shortly followed by harsh foreign words and the collective groans of every other prisoner with whom he shared a bunk room. 

 

This morning, however, Yuuri also woke up to a dull pain in his right arm. He rolled off of his side, relying on his abdominal strength to pull him so he was sitting upright. There was a moment where he just stared at the board of wood that stabilized the break in his wrist, bound only by layers of gauze wrapped around until his arm looked practically mummified. He had never broken a bone before. Yuuri unceremoniously slid from the top bunk, landing with a thud. He didn’t have to follow the usual pattern of getting dressed in the morning because he had fallen asleep in his day clothes. Despite that, he still had his struggles. The young man sat on a ledge on the wall, and fumbled to get his boots on. But even though he was able to get them on his feet, tying the laces proved to be near impossible with only his left hand. He struggled to hold the twine-like rope in place with his injured hand while the other failed to loop the knot he needed to make. After several minutes of fumbling, and most everyone else in the bunkroom getting to their feet and starting to leave the building. 

 

“Need some help?” 

 

Yuuri looked up and saw Phichit. A sympathetic smile was spread across the other man’s face. It was disheartening to see, but at the time, Yuuri was in no position to send his friend away. He sighed, moving his hands away from his laces. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.” The thai man kneeled down in front of his japanese counterpart, making quick work of double knotting the boot straps.

 

The two stood up together, and began following the others out to the field where they usually worked. “I don’t know what I’m going to do…” When he saw the confusion on the other’s face, Yuuri decided to elaborate. “I can’t pick up a shovel, I can’t dig… I mean, if I can’t even tie my own laces, how am I supposed to work?”

 

“I’m sure we’ll come up with something Yuuri.” It was at least a reassuring statement. But as they got closer and closer to the old wood shed where they would normally pick of their working tools, Yuuri couldn’t help just been nauseous. 

 

What didn’t help the nausea at all was seeing a horribly familiar figure standing at the shed, distributing shovels. Major Nikiforov stood next to another soldier, a metal clipboard resting on his left arm while a pen was held in his right hand. A blank, unamused expression was on his face as he made motions as though he were checking items off a list with each shovel that his co-soviet passed to a prisoner. The other soldier was tall, with sharp eyebrows. Dark sideburns poking out from under his fur-lined hat. It looked, and sounded, as if this other soldier was trying to make conversation, saying few words here and there in what Yuuri presumed to be russian. Although Nikiforov never responded.

 

Phichit received his shovel, immediately walking away towards the fields. This left Yuuri as next in line. The japanese man lifted his injured arm, cradling it close to his chest, but making sure the wooden brace was visible. The second this new soldier saw the casting, he halted, stabbing the shovel he had been about to pass over into the ground. He said something, once again in russian, which evidently drew Nikiforov’s attention. 

 

Intense azure eyes flicked over Yuuri’s figure, assessing the situation at hand as though he had never seen the injured man even once before. The soviet Major’s eyes went back to his clipboard, hand writing something down he spoke. “Stand to the side, shoat.”

 

Yuuri’s throat went dry. He tried to gulp down any saliva left, but the nothingness went down like gravel. He took five careful steps. His feet were hesitant to move him forward, but he had to move out of the way so that he wouldn’t be in the way of the other prisoners in line. The young man stared down at his feet, noticing the lack of contrast between the color of his boots and the dirt beneath them. Under normal circumstances, he likely would have shifted in his stance, perhaps kicked at a small rock in the soil. At the very least, he would have dug the toe of his boot into the ground, burrowing it until he made a small crater in the earth. But now? Yuuri stood stiff, not daring to move more than to let his chest rise and fall with his breathing. 

 

Once the line had ended, and each prisoner assigned to working in the field was doing just that, Yuuri was left to stand with no company other than two russian men; one of whom had slapped him across the face just the day before, the other of which looked like he could eat a bear without needing to stop to take a breath. He heard them speak to one another, the thick, crude language cascading over their tongues. It felt shrill on his ears. Yuuri hated when these soviets spoke to one another. He didn’t like not being able to understand them, especially not when he could tell by their glances that they were talking about him. 

 

Suddenly, Major Nikiforov snapped. The man yelled something at his fellow russian. Though the outburst was brief, it made Yuuri jump in his own skin. The ashen blond straightened himself immediately, having not lost even a stitch of his composure even after his flare of anger. Then, he walked towards Yuuri. The ground crunched beneath each step until he stood proud in front of the weak japanese man. “Your injury is inconvenient for us.” The statement was short, but clear. Yuuri being injured meant that there was one less piece of livestock to plow the fields. The injury itself meant nothing to him. Nikiforov inspected Yuuri closely before continuing. “You haven’t been here long, and yet you’ve caused much trouble for us. So do tell,  cвинья, why should I  _ bother _ to keep such a troublesome boar around?”

 

Sirens were going in in Yuuri’s mind, flashing red lights and warning signs. The blood drained from his face, and immediately, his knees felt like they were about to crumble under his weight. “I…” His voice was sandpaper in his throat. “I-I can translate. Japanese and english. I know both, so I can translate.”

 

“Ah, but do you know Russian?” It was terrifying how a voice could be as rich and smooth as the finest silk, and yet instill pure fear at the same time. Yuuri could only shake his head. “Then what good could you possibly be? Right now you are nothing but a broken piece of garbage. You understand me? You are the muck sticking to the bottom of my boots.”

 

“Y-yes.”

 

“Yes, what?”

 

“Yes, sir.” The moment the phrase left his own lips, Yuuri felt like he had betrayed his entire country.

 

There was a moment of bitter silence that passed just as quickly as a glacier melts. Nikiforov was the one who eventually broke that silence. “You’ll be assigned to one english speaking soldier during all work hours, and any additional times we order you to. You must translate all sentences correctly, regardless of what is being said. Do you understand?” 

 

“Yes, sir.” Yuuri couldn’t hide the shuddered breath that left his lips. It wasn’t quite relief, but the sensation was similar enough. 

 

“If you fail to appear when summoned, if you cause problems for  _ any _ of our men, if you fail to complete this task to even the slightest degree, that will be case for punishment. Do you understand  свинья?” Nikiforov narrowed his eyes. The sharp gaze was enough to paralyze a sumo wrestler. 

 

“Yes.” At this point, Yuuri didn’t know how he was still standing, let alone responding. Images of various punishments he had heard these soviets dish out flashed through his mind. Rumors of life in gulags had spread quite far long before Yuuri’s capture. ‘Punishment’ could mean anything from a beating, which Yuuri had already been on the receiving end of once already, to body mutilation, to death. It was an unsettling thought, and caused his skin to crawl as though hundreds of spiders were roaming his body. “I understand.”

 

The next words to leave Major Nikiforov’s mouth were in russian, directed at the remaining soviet. The two exchanged words briefly before the man turned once more to Yuuri. “You’ll stay with  _ Starshina  _ Popovich for today.”

 

With that, Nikiforov turned on his heels and walked away. Yuuri felt his body swaying slightly, but made sure to straighten up instantly. He could no longer afford to relax for even a second. Any higher powers that may or may not exist in the world were clearly against him. If he made it to the end of this war, whenever that may be, the first thing he was going to do was leave offerings at the local shrines. It would be a miracle if he made it back home, if he made it back to his family in one piece.


	6. Put to Work

Yuuri didn’t know what was worse, the feeling of the frostbite building on his nose, wrists and ankles - just about the only parts of his body that he hadn’t managed to cover in some amount of clothe - or the sound of the harsh russian that echoed off the stone walls of the room. The man currently stood in what he could only assume was an office, based on furniture choices alone, while several soviet officers spoke amongst themselves. There was a small fire built in in a hearth near the desk, which provided the only warmth for the room. But Yuuri was only just far enough away that it couldn’t defrost his appendages. 

Yuuri tried not to be judgmental, and he was fairly certain it was his own racial biases that played into this, but every sound that left these men's lips sounded angry. Each syllable was spat out, carried out harshly in the back of the throat. Yuuri had experienced many languages through his time in the military; japanese, english - both British and American - , chinese, german; Phichit had taught him a few greetings in thai; yet for some reason, Russian remained bitter and sharp. 

The japanese prisoner stood by the door, as Nikiforov, Plisetsky, and the the head the the gulag, General Yakov Feltsman, spoke amongst each other. About what? Yuuri had no clue. He only assumed that it would be explained to him later on. 

Yuuri’s new job as a translator was daunting to say the least. While it was certainly preferable to the physical labor of digging and filling holes on repeat, Yuuri was constantly terrified of messing up a translation. He didn’t know what the punishment would be, but he wasn’t exactly looking to find out. There was always the possibility that it wouldn’t even be his fault if something a soviet said didn’t compute perfectly in Japanese, considering the statement would first be translated from Russian to English. The three languages were so vastly different from one another, not even using complimentary alphabets, let alone coinciding gramatical laws. 

The meeting ended with the two subordinate soviets saluting their general. Nikiforov was the first to move away from the desk, turning sharply and walking with his hands clasped behind his back. Plisetsky followed suit. While the lower ranking soldier maintained a respectful three steps behind his senior, the two still managed to keep the exact same stride. Yuuri felt his back straighten automatically as the two approached the door he stood by. No instruction was needed. The second Plisetsky passed through the door frame, Yuuri’s feet moved to follow. As the three exited the administrative building, Yuuri could not help but feel like a wet rat trailing behind the russian men, who were so dressed in uniform, walking tall and proud in unison, while Yuuri was in mud-stained rags, picking at the gauze wrap around his splinted hand, and ruining the tempo his captors set. 

“Katsuki.” Nikiforov’s voice cut like ice. His accent hung onto the “u”, whilst over dramatizing every “k” sound. 

“はい?” The japanese slipped from his mouth on instinct, and was met with a glare. The asian man quickly switched to english. “Y-yes?” Despite the tips of his ears being near frozen, Yuuri was still able to pick up on the slight click of the tongue.

“You will come with me.” Nothing else was said. 

Starshina Plisetsky gave a stiff salute to Major Nikiforov before departing. Once The younger soviet had turned away, Yuuri was left with Nikiforov. Between the two men, Yuuri didn’t know which one he feared most. The young blonde was irrational. He distributed punishment and physically abused Yuuri, and his fellow Japanese men, as if it were entertainment. A times, the blonde would had a bored and bitter expression on his face. It was a silent signal to every prisoner in the gulag to tread as if on eggshells. Nikiforov on the the other hand… Nikiforov had this way about him, whether it was in his stance, his voice, or his baleful gaze, that just instilled fear so easily. When he walked, his boots would crunch in the snow more than anyone else. Every command sounded like glass being shattered, with the accompanied threat of being assaulted with the fragments. The lip of his uniform hat would cast a shadow over his eyes, darkening his facial features.

Yuuri followed Major Nikiforov through the camp, each step he took he could hear the voice in the back of his head begging him not to take another. He didn’t want to be alone with this man. His mother had always taught him to see the good in everyone. But Yuuri couldn’t see anything but cruelty in the patches and polished medals on that russian military uniform.

They entered what looked like an administrative building, close to the entrance of the camp. Another soviet soldier stood outside the entrance with a Mosin-Nagant at his side. Upon seeing Major Nikiforov approach, the soldier straightened up, readjusting the riffle to lean the muzzle against his left shoulder, and offered a stiff solute with his right. Nikiforov did not return the solute, but nodded an acknowledgement as he opened the door. 

The door was not held open for Yuuri. Rather, it almost shut before he managed to push his good hand between the wood slab and the frame. He ignored the grimace on the face of the guard. He was used to it by now.

Inside the building was a small hallway, with only one door at the end of it. Yuuri treaded carefully, knocking on that door before opening it. The hinges groaned. The room Yuuri entered was set up like an office. Beside the door was a staircase along the wall that looked like it lead up to an attic of some sort. Across the room on the other wall, between two bookshelves, was a large wood burning fireplace with an active fire in it. In the center of the room were two wooden benches on either side of a low table. Across from the fireplace, where the heat would be best, was a large wooden desk, stacked up with papers and books. Viktor sat in the matching desk chair. The tip of the man’s chin rested against the knuckle of his forefinger, his elbow propped up on the desktop. He had taken his cap off, and placed it so within arms reach on his desk. The man’s gaze was down at the assortment of documents before him. 

“Step inside.” Nikiforov didn’t look up as he spoke.

A gulp of saliva was swallowed down like a handful of sand as Yuuri approached the desk in the room. The japanese man stood in front of the desk. It was unbearably silent for a few moments. Yuuri had to resist the urge to tap the toe of his boot into the floorboards. 

“Now then,” The soviet officer opened a drawer in his desk, and pulled out two folders. He slid them both across the table. “One contains documents in Japanese. The other contains blank paper. Write the translation on the blank paper. Keep the formatting the same. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” Yuuri gingerly took the folders in hand. “Ex- Excuse me sir.” The expression on the russian man’s face was chilling, yet unreadable. Yuuri couldn’t tell if the emotion in the other man’s eyes was frustration, anger, or perhaps even a disdain formed out of racism. “Could… May I have something to write with?”

“Ah. Конечно.” The man picked a fountain pen off of his desk and handed it to the other. “Work wherever you please.”

Yuuri bowed his head out of habit. It was an automatic reflex. Something ingrained into him from a young age, but at this moment he almost regretted his polite upbringing. He quickly decided to arrange himself at at the short table in the room. The benches were at an uncomfortable height in comparison to the table. After a moment of thinking, Yuuri placed the folders at the end of the table. He removed his coat, the fire in the room kept the room at a decent enough temperature that he was only chilly at best, and folded the article of clothing, placing it on the ground to act as a cushion to kneel on. Once seated on the floor, Yuuri began to work.

The prisoner opened each folder, removing the first document, and one sheet of paper. He looked over the form. They looked to be registry records; information such as names, dates of birth, and relevant intelligence on what seemed to be japanese military men. Part of him felt guilty as he began to transcribe the information. There was no way for him to tell the ranks of these men, or if they were of any importance. It was also a mystery as to why the russians had these documents to begin with, let alone what they planned on doing with the information. There were many questions forming in Yuuri’s head, but he decided not to ask any of them. Instead, he kept silent, and worked. 

It was impossible to tell how time moved within this space. There was no clock in sight, which left Yuuri only guessing how long he had been seated at that coffee table, translating documents. Perhaps ten minutes per page; perhaps more. Nevertheless, he continued to work in silence. He wouldn’t dare break it.


End file.
